few nights, but the snake disappeared when you did. What did he do to
you?”
He broke Rishi’s nose. He attacked me. He had the same red eyes
Miluna had on the day…
“I wonder the extent of your powers.” She keeps going, pacing
around the kitchen table. “Maybe you’ll learn to heal, like Ma and me.
Pa could control weather a little. Do you remember? Before his
disappearance-”
“Dad left ,” I shout. The glass cracks in my hand. “He left us.”
Lula stops her frantic pacing. I stare at myself in mirror again.
You are not a bruja. You are a girl who needs to get far, far away,
where the blood dreams can’t follow .
“You don’t know that,” Lula says. Her bottom lip trembles and her
stormy-gray eyes are glossy with tears.
But I do know that. I was there.
Everyone has a theory of why Patricio Mortiz, benevolent brujo and
loving family man, disappeared without a trace. Some think my father
was taken by the kind of people who still hunt people like us. But
there was no struggle or ransom note. I know in my heart that he left
because of the magic inside me. No matter how much I try to forget,
the memory floats on the surface of my mind.
It was an accident . Back then, I repeated that like a mantra.
I was ten years old and suffered from nightmares and paralyzing
headaches. No one could figure out what was wrong with me. My parents’
Circle came over one day and bathed me in seawater and rubbed ashes on
my face to scare away the ghosts. But it wasn’t ghosts. It was
something inside that wanted to rip me in half to set itself free.
One day, the pain was so bad I stopped going to school. I was
alone in the house. Something woke me, a voice calling from the
shadows. Claws scratched against the wooden floor. Miluna prowled
toward me, her paws trailing ragged, black shadows. Her normally green
eyes were red as rubies, and her pearly white teeth were bared and
covered in yellow froth.
It was an accident . I repeat it still.
Miluna attacked me. I raised my hands in defense, and the magic
coiled in my heart was unleashed. I saw ribbons of red and flesh.
Then, I remember darkness and, for the first time in a long time,
relief. I woke to my father shouting my name. “Alejandra, Alejandra,
are you okay?” He picked me up and carried me to the couch. My body
shook with recoil. My veins buzzed with freed magic.
I cried and screamed and my father held me tighter. He brushed my
hair back and kissed away the tears on my cheeks. He cleaned the blood
on my hands and face.
“Everything will be okay,” he said, but I could see the fear
darkening his gray eyes. I will always remember the way he looked at
me, as if he didn’t know who I was. “Miluna was possessed. She didn’t
know it was you. There are bad things in this world, Alejandra. They
hurt people like us. I’ll take care of it. I promise. It’ll be our
secret, but you can’t tell a soul. Do you swear it?”
“I swear it,” I cried. I clung to him, but he pulled away.
Wouldn’t look into my eyes.
“Sh, my darling. Everything will be okay.”
He ran outside. From my window, I could see him digging a small
grave. I told myself my dad would make things right.
When I woke up again, he was gone, and I knew it was because of
me. My own father was afraid of me. I pulled my magic deep inside and
kept it there. Our secret.
Now, in our kitchen, Lula gasps. My whole body tenses with magic.
“Alejandra,” my mom says.
I hadn’t even heard her come in. The door is wide-open, letting in
the cold.
My mom presses her hands against her mouth. “Oh, my sweet girl.”
When I look up, I see what I’ve done. Everything-the dishes and
the beads of water and soap on them, the flower pots, the jars of
pickled chicken feet and frog eyes. The vials of cooking spices, the
chairs, the frames on the walls, the fruits, and the collection of
good luck roosters on the kitchen sill. Even the ends of Lula’s hair.
All of it. All of it is floating around me.
In a heartbeat, my mom drops her shopping bags. The air is thick,
like a steam room. Then she puts her hands on my face. “Mi’jita,” she
says. My little daughter. “Don’t worry. Everything will be okay.”
I’ve heard that before, and I know it isn’t true. Then, like the
fall of our tears, everything I’ve done comes crashing to the ground.
6
Father, my father, my light through the dark,
my soul and my hope and my path to embark.
- Rezo de El Papa, Book of Cantos
SOMETHING IS WRONG AND YOU’D BETTER TEXT ME.
NO CALL ME.
SILENCE WILL GET YOU NOWHERE.
IF YOU DON’T CALL ME, I’M COMING OVER AND YOU BETTER LET ME IN.
…ARE YOU OKAY? I HAVE ALL THE WORRIES.
All texts from Rishi over the last two days.
For the first time in six years, I skip school. My mom is so busy
planning my Deathday ceremony that she lets me. Rishi stopped by this
morning and Lula took my homework from her but said I was sick and
sleeping. Sometimes I want to tell Rishi the truth. I wonder if she’d
be surprised or scared or even believe me. Rishi likes her days with a
side of weird. Lula reminds me we’re discouraged from revealing
ourselves. Otherwise, she’d tell Maks in a heartbeat. Our uncle Harry
married a human who died when she tried using his Book of Cantos to
make herself younger.
I’m in the car with my family , I start to type. We’re getting
supplies for my magical birthday ceremony. BTW, I’m a witch.
Then I delete it and retype. I’ll explain. I promise.
Lula turns around in the front seat. She tries to grab my phone,
but I yank it away. “Is that Rishi?”
“Why?”
“Just kidding. Who else would it be?”
“Lula,” my mom warns. “Be nice.”
“I’m just saying.”
“Better than the whole swim team having my number,” I hiss so just
Lula can hear me. If looks could kill, I’d be dead for three
lifetimes.
“Too bad you can’t invite her,” Lula says, “so at least you’d have
one friend there.”
I sink in the backseat and watch the Brooklyn brownstones pass by.
A few blocks later, we get to a row of shops that look so old a really
good East River gust could cave them in. At a red light, my mom dabs
her lipstick on, then rubs her lips together to smooth it out. The
plum color brings out the beautiful gold undertones in her brown skin,
the freckles around her cheeks that look like constellations. She
closes the visor, caps the lipstick, and hands it to Lula. She copies
Ma’s exact lipstick application. Lula’s wild curls are extra scrunched
and smell like rose oil. Her skin shines from her homemade coconut
milk and brown sugar scrub. I think I still have eye crud in my eyes
from this morning.
“Oh, relax,” Lula tells me. “I’m just playing.”
She keeps the visor down, so I can see her resting witch face.
She’s mad that I levitated the whole kitchen because she’s always
wanted a physical power. She wouldn’t even help me clean up after.
Rose nudges my arm and gives me one of her calming, close-lipped
smiles. Fine, I’ll play along for Rose.
Mom parallel parks in front of Miss Trix, a rundown shop located
on the only undeveloped street of Park Slope. A wind chime made of
mismatched shells greets us in the funky-smelling botanica. Normally,
buildings have vines crawling on the outside brick. Here, the vines
have made their way into the shop, as if they’re eating the store from
the inside out.
Mountains of books balance in precarious stacks, because Deos